


just you and me

by spheeris1



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Internal Conflict, Sex, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 09:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14871521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1
Summary: one-shot // eve p.o.v. // during episode 8 // Eve asks and Villanelle complies





	just you and me

/ / /

The words fell from your mouth without having to think them up. Nothing to do with your job, nothing to do with right or wrong, nothing to do with the child behind you – kneeling by her shot father – nor the fleeing patrons of this cafe. The words fell from your mouth because they are the only words you've been wanting to say for days now.

You choose not to question any of this.

_“Come with me...”_

You choose not to pull the trigger.

_“Just you and me...”_

You choose her and you hate yourself for it.

_“Please...”_

But you can't help yourself.

/

You couldn't go to the hotel you've been staying at. Carolyn is there and you aren't sure how you feel about her right now. Trust is no longer a street that you and Carolyn share with one another. Maybe it never really was.

You get a room somewhere else – you insist on two beds, not that anyone was asking – and your shoulders sag once he hands you the key card. Like maybe you can relax for a moment. Like maybe this will all make sense once you are behind closed doors.

Once the both of you are behind closed doors.

And you get tense again because, honestly, what are you doing? You can't answer that question because you don't know what the hell you are doing. You are running on something other than rationality, something other than self-preservation, and you are driven by something intangible, a shadow you've been chasing – the one attached to the woman lingering behind you, the one within yourself – and now what will you do? Now that you've got her, now that the two of you are together again... what the fuck are you going to do?

/

“I'm going to take a bath.”

Neither one of you has a change of clothes. You'd love to take a shower, to let hot water pound on your neck and shoulders, but beyond taking off your coat and sitting down, you don't plan on getting too comfortable.

And she's not waiting for your approval or your comments, starting to strip down right in front of you. Unashamed. Brazen. Like she's always been, like she'll probably always be – at least until the day that someone kills her.

The gun is heavy in your lap. And you could kill her right now – for Bill, for justice. You could point and shoot, even if your aim is more than likely shit, but with enough bullets, it wouldn't matter. And you wonder if that would make a difference, if killing her would change anything at all.

Would it give you your old life back?  
Would it bring Bill's child and wife some kind of closure?  
Would you feel like you had conquered her – finally?

You are staring off into nothing and suddenly she is kicking your leg with her bare foot. Her bare foot attached to a bare leg. She's mostly undressed now – shirt and pants in a pile on the floor. Just her bra and underwear is left. You skirt around what you can see and you tell yourself that you have no interest in what you cannot see.

“Order us something to eat.”

She's so calm, she's always so damn calm. It kind of makes you angry. Then again, she's always making you angry. She's good at making you mad, good at getting reactions out of you, good at getting under your skin.

“Fine. What do you want?”  
“You know I'll eat anything.”

And then she is somehow unhooking her bra, even with her own weapon still held loosely in her hand, and she's watching you now. Watching you closely, waiting to see what you say or do now that she is basically naked. And her words come back to you – _“...you have a very nice body...”_ – and a part of you wants to say the same to her.

Because it is true. Infuriatingly and wonderfully true.

But you don't say anything, you just nod your head – like you are the calm one, like you do this all the time – and then you reach over to the phone, dial up room service, and listen to her huff out a small laugh followed by the sound of her walking away and to the bathroom.

Once the water is running and the door is shut, your whole body sinks into this chair and you should be questioning your own sanity – you, with a gun, in a hotel in Moscow, with a killer in tow – but instead, you find your muscles slowly loosening up and your eyelids slowly slipping shut.

Because you are tired, so goddamn tired, and apparently all the uncertainty in the universe isn't enough to keep you awake.

/

_You know you are dreaming. You must be. Because there's no way in hell that Niko could be here – or would even want to be here. But he is here right now, reading out loud from some book, pointing out sentences to you and you are trying to pay attention to him. You really are trying. But his voice is low, too low for you to hear him, and you ask him to speak up. That just makes him upset, in the way that Niko gets upset – wounded in the eyes, sadder with every second that passes. You hate hurting him, but if you can't hear him... then isn't that his fault?_

_He shakes his head at you and his mouth opens wide, like he is yelling, like he is yelling at you – a silent, impotent rage – and now you're getting mad. It's not your fault that he can't scream like everyone else. It's not your fault that he can't get angry. It's not your fault that you can't hear him... is it?_

_You hear a laugh, though. From behind you. And you turn around, ignoring Niko – like you always do, like you always have – and there she is. Looking just like you remember, from that day on that dirt and gravel road, giddy and unhinged, and she is pointing that gun at you again and you can hear your heart beating, you can hear the wind in the trees, you swear to god that you can hear the wickedness in her grin..._

_“It's not my fault either, baby.”_

_It's a whisper, from her lips to yours. Cold as steel. Hot like fire. And then she pulls the trigger._

/

When you jolt awake, throwing your neck into a brief – but definitely painful – spasm, you hear her before you see her, rapidly blinking back sleep and heart racing in your chest. But the gun is still in your grasp and she's just laughing at you. Laughing at you and eating on the bed, white robe wrapped around her body and hair damp.

“Bad dreams?”  
“Uh, no... just, uh... how long was I out?”  
“Long enough for me to eat and to start on yours.”

You glare at her and she grins at you.

“Asshole.”

She plays at looking offended and you roll your eyes at her, getting up and stretching and ignoring her continued chuckling and smirking. She's so cocky, so absolutely annoying. And there's that little voice again, asking why are you doing this? Why are you here with her? Why don't you kill her? Why can't you back off? Why can't you give this up? Give her up?

You splash water on your face. You glance at yourself in the mirror. Whoever this is staring back at you, you don't know her... or maybe you do, but you wish you didn't.

There's a knock on the door and by the time you pop your head out of the bathroom, more food has arrived and there is a glint of satisfaction to her gaze.

“Would an asshole get you more to eat? I don't think so.”

This asshole would, is what you think to yourself, but frankly, you are too hungry to care about commenting. You don't know when you've last eaten, the days and nights are beginning to blur into one giant, surreal mess. And so you dig right in, pointedly ignoring her careful study of your eating habits – which, today, consists of shoveling food into your mouth like it is going out of style – and you mutter a less-than-amused 'ha ha ha' when she lightly claps as you finish.

“A hearty appetite is a good thing.”  
“Glad you approve.”

Her smile at your sarcasm is slow and indulgent, as if this moment has pleased her immensely, and you are caught off guard by the sight of it. She's always catching you off guard, though. She's always doing something that you cannot wrap your head around, no matter how hard you try to. And that drives you crazy, doesn't it? Because figuring her out is all you want to do, isn't it?

Figure her out. Solve the riddle of this woman.  
Stitch together the clues of her life.  
To understand her. To somehow feel what she feels...

...Maybe then you would be able to figure yourself out, too.

/

You call Niko. He doesn't answer. Just like all the times before.

And you pace up and down the hallway outside of the door to your room, taking a moment before you go back in. You don't really have a game-plan at all. This was all impulse, all instinct, born of motives that get less and less clear as you go along. And by this point, surely Carolyn knows what has happened – with Konstantin, with you – and surely someone is looking for you both, faces on a screen or names on a sheet. 

You haven't just overstepped the lines, you've erased them. And you run your fingers through your hair as the realization settles in, the realization that there is no way out now, not now that you have done this – begged her to come with you, desperate and needy. Now that you've walked away from any point of safety, all your avenues dwindling down to just one, and you chose this and simple fascination isn't enough, retribution isn't enough, and you are afraid, you are so very afraid because – 

_It's your fault, Eve, this is all your fucking fault._

– what will ever be enough when it comes to you and Villanelle?

/

The television is on, a soft blue glow in this otherwise dark room. And she's on her bed, you are on yours. Neither one of you have said a word in so long, it's almost as if you are alone. And the movie that's on is pretty bad – the plot is ridiculous, the dubbing over is poorly done – but she hasn't let go of the remote since she got a hold of it. That's fine with you, what do you care what the two of you watch?

You wish you could sleep.

But you've only managed to take your shoes off, propped up on pillows and the headboard, the weight of the weapon you have stolen unbelievably heavy by your thigh. And she's still got her gun, too, on the pillow next to her – _“unless you'd rather come over and keep me company...”_ – and her voice ricocheted around your brain, better than any bullet, leaving you silently flustered, leaving you and her to endless quiet.

She yawns and stretches, arms and head back, and you can't help but notice how the robe opens up a bit, the paleness of her skin seemingly translucent in the television's light – pale and perfect, at least until you reach her jaw. That bruise, like a deadly flower blooming at night, but somehow still alluring. Only she could make something painful look like goddamn art.

You get caught looking.

You expect her to say something – something snarky, something full of innuendo – or to smirk at you, to laugh at you. But no, she just holds your stare, holds it even as her body slowly shifts and moves, holds it to the point that it takes you a few seconds to comprehend that she is nearer to you now.

...and your grip tightens around the gun...

She reaches out and her fingertips find your cheek, fluttering at first – light, oh so delicate – and then she becomes more firm, her touch determined as she dives into your hair. And she's pulling you forward, pulling you into her – into her clean, warm skin as the robe starts to fall from her shoulders.

...and your chest fucking aches...

“Just you and me, Eve...,” spoken against your lips, “...it's just you and me now...” slipped into your mouth and your words are here to haunt you, in all their reckless glory, and you should push her away, you should run as fast as you can. But all you can do – all you can really fucking do – is kiss her back.

...and everything just stops, every thought and every worry and every dark notion...

It's just you and her and everything else is meaningless.

/

You tell yourself that this is just another dream.

_Waking up, the television still on, curtains drawn but with edges of a gray dawn beyond their cover, and you are not alone, her leg is tucked comfortably between your thighs and you can hear her breathing, feel the air brush over your chest._

You tell yourself that this is just a dream and nothing more.

_There's a series of scratches on your stomach. There's a tenderness around your neck. She has marked you and you were so eager to do the same, to brand her, to ruin her as much as she is surely ruining you. And you know what it feels like to sink your teeth into her now, you know how exhilarating it is to make her come now._

This is just a dream. This isn't real. None of this is real. None of this could ever be real.

_“Please...” and it was a plea, so shameless as she fucked you, and you came alive with her inside of you, the two of you trading moans between your lips, and maybe you had her for a moment, spellbound in the face of your complete dismantling... maybe you had each other for a moment, held fast in this unraveling..._

You close your eyes and you tell yourself that this is just a stupid dream. But you're still surprised to find tears rolling quietly down your face.

Because you are a liar.  
Such a goddamn liar.

/ / /

**(end)**

**Author's Note:**

> A little 'what if' scenario, set during one night in Moscow (almost the title, tbh). Thanks to that excellent cover of 'One Way or Another' by Until The Ribbon Breaks. All mistakes are mine, etc.


End file.
